


The World Is None The Wiser

by Eshusplayground



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: BDSM, Caning, F/F, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eshusplayground/pseuds/Eshusplayground
Summary: The hidden dimensions to Azula's relationship with her "handmaiden."
Relationships: Azula (Avatar)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 131





	The World Is None The Wiser

**Author's Note:**

> Azula is very much a grown woman in this fic. Assume a minimum of 15 years have passed since the finale of the show.

In the eyes of the public, we are a princess and her handmaiden.

As she attends to the duties of her station, I attend to her. I pour her tea while she reads her letters. I hold targets for blue flames and lightning during her training sessions. I carry her belongings when she travels. She moves, and I follow. She commands, and I obey.

But when we are alone, just she and I, we are more.

In the Princess’s private chambers, I lie on the ornately woven rug, splayed out and nude before her. My fingers play with the ripe, swollen flesh between my thighs. The Princess sits on her knees, her back as straight as a rod and her face smooth and impassive. Dragons and phoenixes embroidered in gold fly across the deep red silk of her robe. I can never tell if they are fighting or dancing or mating.

I am close, so close. I want her to touch me, taste me, take me out of myself. But she won’t lay a finger on me until she is ready, until I tremble and beg, unable to take any more. Only then, with a hint of a smug smile, will she take me and make me hers.

Believe it or not, I was the one who started it.

In her seat at the royal spa, the Princess soaked her feet in steaming water infused with bath salts and fragrant oils. Kneeling before her, I held out a plush towel. She placed one foot upon it, and I gently patted it dry.

As I wrapped the other foot in the towel, a strange instinct pulled my gaze toward her face. Though the Princess wore the same poised, inscrutable expression she always did, as I glanced into her eyes, I was struck by a loneliness so sharp and deep my heart ached. I was overcome by the urge to comfort her, to let her know I was there.

Before I knew what I was doing, I brought her foot to my lips and kissed it as softly as I could.

Cold dread coursed through me. She could’ve had me executed for what I’d done. She could’ve banished me. She could’ve burned me for my impertinence. Or, at the very least, immediately dismissed me from her service.

But she didn’t. Instead, she slid her foot into my lap, a silent command. I obeyed, gently stroking and kneading her flesh until she removed her foot from my hands.

It has been this way between us ever since.

The Princess is generous with her affection, showering me with tokens of her favor. Fine clothes and shiny trinkets regularly find their way to my armoire. The palace kitchen always prepares my favorite desserts for my birthday. On the same day each year, a vase stuffed with rare and beautiful flowers decorates my bedside table.

Sometimes, the Princess speaks with me, asking me questions about myself or what I think about something. When no one is around, she feeds me sweet morsels of her life, stories about growing up in the palace and her many adventures out in the world and the time she spent in the spirit realm. I devour them as eagerly as a child, and she looks upon me with the softest smile.

I treasure these moments between us. They’re more precious to me than gold or jewels. But they do not come cheaply, for the Princess demands much of me.

Once, I prepared a bowl of cherries for her, and she found the single pit hidden among them. Anyone else would have overlooked such a small error, but the Princess aims for perfection and expects nothing less.

Holding the cherry pit out to me, she asked, “What am I holding?”

“A cherry pit, Princess,” I said.

“Correct. And you know I hate cherry pits, don’t you?”

“Yes, Princess.”

“So, please. Tell me why you’ve decided to leave a pit in my cherry?”

“Forgive me, Princess.”

“This will not do,” she said.

I lowered my eyes, chastened by her displeasure. She bade me bend over a chair and lift my garments. I obeyed, my hands already shaking as I exposed my nakedness to her unflinching gaze. As I waited for my punishment, I imagined her behind me, as still and serene as a statue, save for the flash of heat in those eyes of dark gold.

The narrow length of a bamboo cane grazed my backside, the instrument the Princess maintained specifically for this purpose. I tensed, ready for her to strike, but the Princess simply waited, stretching out the moment until it threatened to snap. My limbs ached from holding their position for so long. Still, the Princess waited. Then, just as my muscles started to relax, the bamboo came hard and swift on my backside.

I cried out as the Princess struck me again and again, striking up a relentless rhythm as the first orgasm shuddered through me. Once I grew accustomed to it, she shifted the tempo and timing of her blows, delivering pain and pleasure in a delightful staccato rhythm. I cried out over and over, coming again and again, but the Princess was merciless, and she did not stop until she had wrung out every drop agony and ecstasy, leaving me utterly spent.

“This will not happen again,” said the Princess, gently caressing the hot, tenderized flesh of my buttocks, “Am I understood?”

I nodded, swaying as if drunk, “Yes, Princess.”

It’s possible that I’d left the cherry pit on purpose.

After the Princess punishes me, we lie together and take turns holding each other in the dark. While I snuggle in her arms, she kisses me and whispers softly those things she cannot say in the light. She calls me strong and beautiful and tells me how lucky she is to have found me. Then she clings to me, and I pet her gently, running my fingers through her hair, to let her know she’s not a monster for what she’s done. Sometimes we don’t speak at all, exchanging delicate kisses and touches as if as if we are as fragile as eggshells or made of glass.

When we face the world again, we seamlessly slip into our roles, she the princess and me the handmaiden, and the world is none the wiser.


End file.
